


Groff's Wife

by hafren



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-20
Updated: 2009-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafren/pseuds/hafren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dawn of the Gods, Avon and Tarrant keep a promise</p>
            </blockquote>





	Groff's Wife

Avon shifted uneasily in his seat and made a pretence of sipping his drink as he watched Tarrant, lounging by the bar, chatting to one of the shipyard workers who'd just come off shift. This was evidently their local and must suit them down to the ground, he thought sourly, noting the wall with its peeling paint, bare but for a calendar of impossibly pneumatic young ladies. He rested his elbow on the table and hastily removed it as he felt the stickiness of spilt alcohol.

Tarrant ambled unhurriedly back and sat down.

"Xaranar is a Federation world, you know," Avon muttered, "we need to be careful whom we speak to. Indeed I have heard it is generally wise to avoid speaking to strange men in bars."

"It's also a shipbuilding and ship-crewing world, and it's the family of a ship's crewman we're looking for. Where better to make enquiries? " Tarrant looked annoyingly at ease, and had done since, at his suggestion, they'd entered the bar.

"You seem very much at home. I had no idea space pilots fraternised with the riveters, or whatever they are, who actually built the things."

"Maybe we didn't, much. But any pilot is interested in how his ship works, and any sensible pilot wants to stay the right side of maintenance. Those lads could put you months down the schedule if they didn't like you - or make sure something went wrong at an awkward moment. I get on all right with them."

"And has your new-found friend actually told you anything of use, such as the residence of Groff's widow? I would really prefer to be out of here as soon as possible."

"Sort of. It was before his time, but the ship that went missing was called the _Constant_. A man called Issuf might be coming in later; he knew some of the crew."

Avon sighed, produced a handkerchief and began trying to clean the table-top.

It was some time later that a man just the wrong side of middle age came over and sat down.

"I'm Issuf. You the fellows asking about the old _Constant_?" Tarrant nodded and gestured at the man's glass.

"Aye, you can put another one in there." Tarrant took the glass and headed for the bar.

"Did you know the crew, then?" Avon asked.

"Did you?" Issuf's look was sharp, and a bit wary. "Nobody's heard word of that ship since she vanished off the charts. Do you know what became of her?"

" We knew one of the crew once; we thought we'd look him up while we were here. Then when we heard his ship was lost, we thought of going to see his family, just to pay our respects."

Issuf nodded, apparently satisfied, and sank half the pint Tarrant had just put in front of him. "Who was it you were after, then?"

"A man called Groff, a technician. Did you know him?"

Issuf ran a hand though his greying curls. "Yeah, I knew Groff. Not that well. He was a family man; he didn't come down the pub much. Nice bloke, though. Harmless." He took another swig. "It's a damn shame none of those lads' families ever got a pension."

"Why not?" Tarrant frowned. "That's standard when a ship's lost." He noticed Avon's warning look and added "….surely?"

"Only if they know how it was lost. Never found a trace of the _Constant_. Sure, she could have come to grief somehow, but there've always been those who'll say the crew deserted with her. Long as no one can prove different, that's enough excuse for the bastard bosses not to pay out."

Seeing Tarrant on the verge of speaking, Avon kicked him under the table and himself asked "So how do the families manage?"

"The lads help, of course. We've got a fund for that sort of thing. Sickness, funerals, kids' birthdays, we all chip in when we're earning and then look after each other when we aren't. No sense relying on anyone else; they'll all screw you except your mates."

"An optimistic assessment," Avon murmured.

Tarrant shot him a dirty look. "It's a great system, Issuf. Look, we'd really like to pay our respects to his family?"

"No problem. She lives in the North Quay flats, two blocks down from here. Number 47." He paused and stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Funny, you know, old Groff was the last bloke I'd have expected anyone to remember and come looking for. He was nice, like I said, but he didn't stick in the memory."

"He stuck in mine," Tarrant said, "he did us a big favour once." They drank up and went outside, Avon still trying to get the stickiness off his sleeve.

* * *

The block of flats was as faceless as any other; the lift smelt like the usual urinal and each identical door on each identical corridor was individualised only by a number above the buzzer. Number 47 was opened by a lad of about sixteen. He looked steady, decent, unremarkable.

"Mum, some people to see you." He let them in. "Sit down, she won't be a minute. That's my sister over there, doing her homework." He went up a stepladder by a wall light, which he'd evidently been in the middle of fixing when they called. His tools, scattered about, were the only things out of place in the room; the furnishings were worn, but everything was neat and clean. A girl, perhaps fourteen, glanced up from a computer screen. Tarrant thought her a bit of a plain Jane, until she smiled, and then he thought how kind and good-humoured her face looked.

The mother came in, looking surprised and a little apprehensive. "Hello, what can I do for you? If it's the rent, we paid it yesterday."

"No," Tarrant reassured her, "it's nothing to do with money." They had agreed beforehand that he would tell the family; he was genuinely afraid that Avon might think "Where's the Widow Groff?" a suitable opening gambit.

She looked relieved and asked them to sit down. She was a small, dark-eyed woman, who looked as if she did a lot of working and worrying, but she had the same warm smile as her daughter. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, looking expectantly up at him, and he regretted his decision to do the talking.

"It's… it's about your husband." Her hands clenched, he saw the knuckles whiten. The clatter of the girl's keyboard hushed, and her brother's hammer paused in mid-air. It was as if the whole world had come to a stop. "I'm afraid he's dead," Tarrant went on quickly, avoiding three pairs of eyes in which light had briefly kindled. "But we were with him just before, and he asked us to take you a message. To say you were always in his thoughts."

"What happened?" asked the boy from up his ladder, "were you on his ship?"

"No. It was captured, with its whole crew, on a planet that specialised in that sort of thing; they scavenged ships for materials and enslaved the crews. Our ship got taken too, that's how we met him."

"Where is this planet?" The boy sounded as if he wanted to mount an immediate expedition.

"It isn't anywhere, now. It was destroyed, mostly because of your father. He was very brave. He couldn't get away himself but he helped us to escape and asked us to bring word to you. He died very quickly, I promise he can't have suffered at all."

"So he wasn't a deserter. Or a traitor. Whatever anyone says." The boy hammered in a nail with unnecessary vim.

"No, indeed." Tarrant smiled at the woman sitting in front of him. "You must be glad to know that."

"Oh, I always knew it," she said, "but thank you for telling me he didn't suffer. Though" - her voice faltered - "it must have hurt him, being away from us so long, and not able to get word to us. Thank you for that too. Would you like some tea?"

"'S all right, Mum, I'll get it," the daughter murmured and went out to the kitchen. Tarrant, feeling awkward and at a loss for what to say next, suddenly heard Avon's voice beside him.

"As soon as we can, we will send evidence to the authorities here of what befell the _Constant_. The planet's debris will still be identifiable and should corroborate our account. Then there will be no reason not to pay the normal pension."

"And no slur on his name," Tarrant added, suspecting that this mattered more to the boy.

Avon's eyes were fixed on the woman. "What did you think had become of him?" he asked.

"Oh… something sudden, obviously, a storm or pirates, something like that? I knew he must be dead or captured somewhere."

"How?"

"Because otherwise he would have come back to us," she said, completely matter-of-fact, as if there were only one possible answer.

"You never doubted that?" Avon persisted, "never thought he might have deserted and made a new life?"

"Oh no," she said, and gave him that warm, serene smile. "I never doubted him for a moment."

The tea came, with some biscuits like sweet cardboard. Tarrant unobtrusively slipped his into his pocket and saw with some surprise that Avon was eating his as if he hadn't noticed the taste.

They took their leave soon afterwards. Tarrant paused at the door, glanced round the ordinary, unremarkable family and said, "He would have been very proud of you all."

Back on the _Liberator_, Avon made good his promise and sent a detailed report to the Xaranar authorities. Tarrant watched him curiously. He hadn't said a word since leaving the flat.

"She really got to you, didn't she? Groff's wife." Tarrant realised he still didn't know the woman's name.

"To have that much confidence," Avon said quietly, "that someone would come back if he could." He did not elaborate but went off into a huddle with Orac, saying he had something he needed to research.

Tarrant fished the remains of the crumbling biscuit out of his pocket and thought about Groff, who didn't stick in the memory.


End file.
